


from midnight

by Cloudnine101



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bickering, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Character Death, First Kiss, Flirting, Love Confessions, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4883620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Q rubs at his temples. "I'm really not getting rid of you, am I?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bond shakes his head. The light falls onto his hair, staining it the colour of rust. "No," he says, voice positively gleeful.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Q resists the urge to brain himself against the counter-top.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <br/>In which Agent Q acquires the world's worst flatmate, has far too much trouble sleeping, and cannot control his interns. And there is a zoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	from midnight

Q hasn't slept for a total of twenty seven hours, twelve minutes and ten seconds. The timer atop the monitor keeps count. He stopped caring at hour seven. Taking a sip of his tea, he soaks in the buzz; swallows down a gulp. Beside him, an intern giggles, and flutters away. Marie, Q thinks. She wears glasses.

On the screen before him, there is half the carcass of a Bengal tiger, surrounded by a team of Italian secret service agents, a small bomb disposal unit, and what appears the entire lemur population of the planet. Bloody zoos and their bloody terrorists. Bloody London.

"Alright, 006," he says. "You're almost done. Just get to the check-point, and you can wash those guts off your suit." 

"I'm clear. I know. We've been over this."

Q can hear the laughter, in Brown's voice. Swinging herself over the railing, she lands neatly, and proceeds towards the tube station. Q can't help but feel a little proud. Marie returns to her bench, and slips Hodgkins a note under the table.

"Mission complete," Q says. "Congratulations. Now find yourself a shower." He turns off the screen. Spreading his hands wide, he opens his tabs - clicks between them, keeping his eyes wide open.

 

_Agent: Brown, Jennifer. (006.) Status: active. London, England._

_Agent: Hubris, Brian. (004.) Status: active. Dunkirk, France._

_Agent: Hobbs, Lawrence. (001.) Status: active. London, England._

_Agent: Bond, James. (007.) Status: - - -_

 

For a second, time stands still. Behind Q, one of the interns - Xavier, or Xander, or something - has just choked on his tea, and is floundering his way into unconsciousness. Marie leaps from her seat, darts across the room, and begins to pump her palms against his chest. Hodgkins hisses at them, transparently envious.

Agent Bond, according to the scanner, no longer has a heartbeat.

"Bugger," Q mutters, and sounds the alarm.

 

 

When Q wakes, he isn't alone.

The room is empty. The bed is warm. The curtains are drawn. There is the click of the fan, and the buzz of the heater (because they never can make their mind up), and the light of the clock. The screen reads 01:06.

Q's skin prickles. Shoving his glasses onto his face, he rolls to one side, kicking off the covers. He can feel his heartbeat rising, as he pulls open the drawer. The gun sits where he left it - beneath the socks, and the ties. Shoving them aside, he picks it out, and removes the safety. The sound of it echoes.

The door creaks too loudly, as he nudges it open. Pointing the gun in front of him, he starts towards the stairwell. Shadows fall along the floor - long, and lengthy, and black. Q's teeth click together.

There is a light on in the kitchen. It spills outwards, costing everything in an amber glow. Power-saving, the man had said. Q hadn't really been listening. They'd been cheap, and that had been what mattered. He's regretting the decision somewhat, now. They certainly add to the atmosphere.

If this was a horror movie, at this point in time, he'd be hissing _hello_ \- or, depending on the scenario, _who is that?_ As it is, he crosses to the doorway, making as little noise as is he can (which is probably too much, anyway), and presses his eye to the crack.

Q's shoulders fall. He lowers the gun; he exhales. Relaxes. Tenses. Stares.

"Bloody idiot," he says. Shoving open the door, he allows it to slam against the wall. Hard.

The man turns around, beer bottle in hand. The light from the fridge gleams off his face, highlighting the hollow beneath his cheekbones. He's wearing a suit, with the tie undone around his neck. There is a purple bruise around his left eye.

"Bond," Q says, shortly. "What are you doing here?"

Bond blinks at him. His throat twitches.

"This is a safe house," he says, as though that explains everything. Q pinches the bridge of his nose.

" _MI6_ is a safe house. _MI6_ is where you should be, and - is that - are you - "

"Injured?" Bond dabs at the scar on his forehead, almost contemplatively. Q can't take his eyes off it. "I'll survive."

"As much as I crave your company, 007, can you please explain to me precisely what's going on? And use small words. My brain doesn't function correctly at this time of the morning."

"Can I trust you?" Bond asks. Suddenly, his eyes are narrowed. His fist is clenched. He has a smear of blood, running along his forehead, and the inside of his wrist.

"Of course not," Q says. "I'm a spy. I lie for a living."

For a second, Bond doesn't move. Q turns away, and returns to his washing. As he holds the plates, they rattle, their edges clinking. Bond's breathing is impossibly loud.

"I need your help," Bond says, slowly. Q blinks. Stares. Blinks. Bond shifts, from foot to foot. Q can't recall a time when he's seen him look acutely uncomfortable, before. "I don't know you, but my former Quartermaster was a good friend. A good man." Bond lifts the bottle to his lips, and takes a swig.

"That's mine," Q says, gesturing to the beer.

Bond shrugs. "Your fridge was unlocked."

"Who locks their fridge in their own home?"

"Obviously, you should."

Q sighs - deeply. "If I say you can't stay?"

"I won't leave," Bond says. "I can't."

"And if I say you can?"

Bond's smile is a (perfectly level) knife's edge. "You won't even know I'm here."

Q rubs at his temples. "I'm really not getting rid of you, am I?"

Bond shakes his head. The light falls onto his hair, staining it the colour of rust. "No," he says, voice positively gleeful.

Q resists the urge to brain himself against the counter-top.

"If you are going to be staying, we'll need to get you a change of outfit. We're hardly the same size, and bloodstained isn't your colour."

"It's not my fault you're scrawny," Bond shoots back.

"My body mass is average, I'll have you know," Q mutters, turning off the tap. It squeaks. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to take off your clothes?"

He can almost see Bond's smirk. "I didn't know you were that eager."

Q rolls his eyes. "Clothes, 007, or I will be forced to use the taser."

"Taser?" Bond says. "I didn't spot it."

"That's because you weren't looking," Q says. Spinning on his heel, he folds his arms over his chest. Bond has already lounged against the wall. He's standing there like he owns the place - which is rich, all things considered.

"Where are you hiding it?"

Q smiles. It's a good feeling. "That's for me to know," he says.

"And me to find out?"

Q grins, baring his teeth, and places his gun on the sideboard. "Not in a million years."

 

 

As suspected, Bond does not fit Q's clothes. Any of them. He is lying on the bed, eyes closed, breathing softly. Around him, the jumpers have been folded neatly, and placed into small, symmetrical piles. Vaguely, Q is impressed.

"You know, it's bad practice for an operative to be so open," Q comments. Stepping forwards, he surveys the room, in one glance. Apart from his wardrobe (which is entirely empty), nothing seems to be out of place. Yet.

"You may as well call me agent," Bond says. "It's common courtesy."

Q snorts, pointedly. "I'll call you that when you've earned it. Stand up."

One of Bond's eyes open, eyelid flickering. "Hm?"

Q taps his foot on the floorboards. The sound echoes. "You heard me. Stand up. You're not staying in here."

Sitting up straight, Bond puts his arms behind him, entirely nonchalant. "This is a bedroom. I'm your guest. I'm entitled."

"You're not my guest. You broke into my home, and I can't get rid of you. Therefore, you're not entitled to anything. And that includes a mattress."

Rolling to his feet, Bond's hands fall to his sides. He moves quietly, as he steps closer; cat-like, almost. He appears to be very, very big. "I could always disagree."

"I'd like to see you try."

Bond lifts his chin. "I'm taller than you."

"I'm more intelligent."

"I have a gun in my back pocket."

"I have a taser."

Bond pauses. Considers.

"I'm better in bed," he finally decides on.

"Congratulations," Q mutters, "007, the master of lechery. I'd be impressed, if I wasn't aware of your reputation."

"All bad things, I hope?"

"Oh, naturally."

Bond nods, once, lip quirking upwards. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

"You're taking the couch," Q says. 

 

 

Bond does. 

 

 

That night, Q lies on his back, and stares up at the ceiling. The bed-springs dig into his skin. No matter which way he turns, he can't get comfortable - and he has tried a great many ways. Quite frankly, at this point, he's ready to throw in the towel. There are always problems to be solving - the arms dealers in Morocco, for example.

"You should be asleep," the voice in the doorway says.

Q's head snaps up. "As should you."

Smiling, Bond lounges in the doorway, back perfectly straight. "I'm not the one trying to stop a gang war at two am."

"Midnight," Q replies, instantly.

"Two am," Bond corrects. "Almost two thirty."

Q looks back at the screen, and, indignantly, checks the clock. His face falls. "Oh," he says. "Well, then."

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I can't see how that's any of your business." 

"You're my Quartermaster. We work together. I'd very much like to live a few years more, and not be directed to the wrong warehouse by a sleep-deprived megalomaniac."

"I'm not a megalomaniac."

"But you don't deny that you're sleep-deprived."

Massaging his eyes with his knuckles, Q blows out a breath. "For a man who's only staying one night, you have a variety of rooted opinions. Try remaining impartial, 007. It might do you some good."

"Yes," Bond murmurs, softly, "it might."

It's only then that Q realises precisely what he has said. 

"Goodnight, Q. I'll see you in the morning."

The door clicks shut. Q rubs his temples, with his fingertips; shoves his glasses up his nose.

"That didn't go well," he tells the door, and receives no reply.

 

 

Bond's waiting in the kitchen when Q walks in. He has a phone pressed against his ear. It's sleek, and black - entirely water, fire, and high-and-low-air-pressure proofed. You can even use it on board planes. Q should know. He designed it.

"Yes, sir," Bond's saying, "no, sir." 

The line must go dead, Because Bond grits his teeth, and growls into the device: "Bastard."

"Looks like you're staying here, then," Q says.

When Bond faces him, he's smiling. It doesn't reach his eyes. "For the time being."

Q nods, and picks up a spoon - not because he needs it, but for something to hold onto. The metal is cool, between his palms. He breathes in.

"You were happy to be here before. Did MI6 suddenly seem attractive?" Bond doesn't answer. Q sighs. "I suppose that means we've got to learn to get along, then?"

"Apparently."

Opening the fridge, Q peers inside. It doesn't look very promising. Bond's lips have sealed up. He doesn't look inclined to say anything else.

"Well," Q says, "unless you fancy half a jar of Branston's pickle for breakfast, I'm going shopping. I'll see you in an hour. Try not to break anything."

Bond just nods, and doesn't speak.

Q lets himself out, and takes the street at a jog.

 

 

In hindsight, shopping may not have been the best plan. It appeared innocent enough, at first - and then actual work got involved. Work is supposed to be for the office. The question of the hour: what exactly do double-0 agents eat? Q's never seen Bond eat _anything_. Ever. He's watched him _drink_ ; but somehow, he doubts that a vodka martini, either shaken or stirred, is going to cut it. So. What will?

Agents need energy, don't they? Lots of carbohydrates - and fats. Plain old toast won't cut it, which is what Q had originally been angling for. Bond would need something  - _more_. But...toast contains carbs, doesn't it? It should be fine. Hopefully.

Q isn't nervous, or anything. That would be absurd. He's a professional. It's not as though Bond can break men's skulls with his palms, and kick men through windows without a glance backwards. That would be...absurd. Again.

This is the reason why Q has been standing in the bakery aisle for the past ten minutes, staring fixedly at two loaves of bread - one wholemeal, and one white.

"Stuff it," Q mutters, and buys them both.

 

 

By the time Q returns to the house, the trouble has begun. He can tell, as soon as he enters. There are sounds, coming from upstairs - dull thuds, and clatters. Draws opening. Draws shutting.

Q's chest grows cold. He takes the stairs two at a time. The door is unlocked, unbolted, and wide open.

"007," Q pants, "is _nothing_ private?" 

"What is this?" Bond asks. He holds it up to the light; inspects it, grinning gleefully, like some manic, hyperactive child. Q does his level best not to scream.

"You know exactly what it is. You're a grown man."

Bond positively snickers. "Do you use it often?"

Q snatches it from his hand. "As a matter of fact, I don't. This belongs to one of my interns."

Bond's eyebrows shoot off his skull. Q is momentarily gratified. "Isn't there some kind of inter-office fraternisation rule?"

"Of course there is. I created it." Q massages his temples; sighs. "She needed a place to stay, and I was available. Her parents had just disowned her. Nothing happened."

The bear, now Q thinks about it, may just be one of the ugliest things he's ever seen. It's missing an eye, to begin with; its legs don't look like they'll be hanging on for much longer, either. 

Q chucks the bag at Bond's head. Annoyingly, he catches it with ease, with an air of bewilderment. "Food. Clothes. I had to guess your size."

"It's not a bad idea," he hears Bond mutter.

"Arse-hole," Q spits.

Bond's laughter follows him down the corridor, onto the landing, and out of the open front door.

 

 

The arms dealers in Morocco require some...more persuasive intervention. This is why, three hours later, Q is standing in the middle of his branch, desperately trying to get 006 through the assault - which is proving just a little trickier than anticipated.

"And you're certain there's no exit?"

On the comms line, there's a ragged intake of breath.

"Negative," Brown spits out (possibly past one of her front teeth), "there's no way out. Not with them."

"You can't just run through it?" Q hazards.

Brown rolls her eyes. "It's a wall of bullets, Q. These things are supposed to be pretty impenetrable."

Q is about to quip back, before he remembers who he's talking to (or, rather, who he isn't talking to).

"Right," he says. "No need to panic. I'll send in reinforcements. We'll have you out in no time. Don't you worry, 006."

Taking a sip of his tea, Q drums his foot on the tiles, typing, typing, typing. If he works fast, he can have troops there within ten minutes - maybe quicker, if his palms would stop sweating-

Breathlessly, Brown laughs. "Somehow, that isn't reassuring me." PStretching out her injured leg, Brown peers around the corner. She whips her head back almost instantly. "I think I'll make a break for it."

"No. 006, don't."

Brown chuckles, softly. "It doesn't matter, anywhere. Reinforcements will take fifteen minutes, at least. They'll have got past the mines before then."

"I can get them here in ten. Nine, now. They're on their way. Sit tight."

"No time," Brown breathes. There's a bang; a louder one, this time. Brown inhales. "It was nice knowing you, Q." Staggering a little, she rises to her feet, teeth gritted against the pain. Back pressed against the wall, she removes the comms-link from her ear, and throws it to the ground. The camera's feed blinks, once. 

Q's knuckles turn white. "006 - Brown - Jennifer, _don't_ \- " 

 

 

The sky is grey. There aren't any clouds, in particular; just one long, thick sheet of blankness. Q can't tear his eyes away from it.

"Her name was Jennifer," Q says. "She was twenty six."

"You're twenty eight," Bond replies, "and you know the risks."

"So did she."

There is a silence.

"We went to the same university," Q comments. "Different times, but same place."

"What did you study?" Bond asks - out of politeness, most probably. Q can't imagine that he'd actually want to know.

"Robotics engineering," Q says. He sighs. "And drama."

"Drama?"

Bond's lips are definitely twitching, now. Q glares at him.

"Just because it's not the path down which my life has taken me - "'

"I don't doubt that you're talented. I just - never imagined you on stage."

Q shrugs. He's tapping out a pattern, on his knee - a steady _tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap._

"Every performance needs a director. I happened to fit the bill." Q closes his eyes, and turns his head to the side. Bond, surprisingly, is still watching, so he continues, "Bloody hated acting."

Bond snorts with laughter. Q joins him.

"They're already trying to find a replacement. For 006."

"Trying?" Bond asks. 

Q shakes his head. "Nobody's the same standard. They're saying Luis is going to have it."

Bond frowns. "Luis is an arse."

"Yes, he is. But he's also an extremely talented sniper." Q rubs one of his eyes. He's got a headache coming on. 

"It's not your fault."

"You can't possibly know that."

"I can."

"How? How can you know how it feels, 007? I appreciate your losses, and I appreciate what you have done for this country, but you didn't let her die. That was me, unless you've forgotten." Q closes his eyes, and considers counting to a billion. By the time two hundred has been and gone, he's feeling calm. Calmer. "My apologies. It's a hazard of the job. I'll get over it. No doubt you've seen more people killed." 

"Her name was Vesper," Bond says. 

Q looks up. "What?"

"Vesper Lynd. We met at a casino." Bond shakes his head. "You're acting like you don't know."

Q huffs. "We're not obligated to read our agents' files. You're not that interesting." 

"But you did anyway."

"Yes. I did. What was she like?"

"You know, you're the only person to ask me that."

"I always knew I was unique."

"Don't push your luck."

"You're too charming, Bond."

"She was..." Suddenly, Q's hands are a lot more interesting than the outside world. A small cut has appeared, along the back of one of his knuckles. He'll probably need to buy a plaster. "Beautiful."

"Yes," Q says. "She must have been." 

"She was the one I - grew attached to," Bond says. "The last time." 

"Ah." 

The light's shining down on Bond's cheekbones. The scar's healing up nicely, puffy and pink against his skin. All in all, he seems to be improving. 

"We all make mistakes," Q says. 

Bond doesn't seem to hear him. 

 

 

"Let me take you to dinner," Bond says.

Q doesn't bother looking up. There's a crisis in an unnamed country - the Vice-President's been kidnapped, and the whole country's going to pot (or, at least, the whole country's senior officials). It's far more important than Bond's games.

If his fingers stutter while he types, he covers for the mishap well.

"I thought we'd agreed to honesty."

Bond laughs, a little. It sends a warm spike into Q's stomach. He crushes it.

"We're spies," Bond replies, easily, breath puffing against the back of Q's neck. Q shivers. "We lie."

"Then don't," Q mutters, "and stop pestering me. Unlike some people, I have grown-up work to do."

Bond pouts. "I thought I was a grown-up?"

Q clicks enter, and sits back, folding his fingertips together. "Debatable."

Bond peers over his shoulder. Their bodies are lined up; Bond's front against Q's back. If the chair wasn't there, it would be just Q's back. Somehow, Q can't shake the thought.

"Dear Mr President," Bond reads aloud, "I would like to send my most heartfelt - " 

Q snaps the laptop's lid shut. "That's quite enough of that."

"Too sensitive for my lowly operative eyes?"

"Precisely," Q says. "Now shoo. Go on. If you're good, I'll take you for a walk, later. Maybe then you'll burn off you energy."

"I _was_ serious," Bond says. "About the dinner."

Q glances up, blinking. His glasses run against his nose. They're going to leave marks. "What?"

"About the dinner," Bond repeats, more loudly. "I'm inviting you."

"You're hardly in a position to invite anyone anywhere. You could be called up at any moment, and you wouldn't be able to do a thing about it."

Bond shrugs, broadly. "I could die. Again."

Q's breath hitches. "You could," he says, quietly.

There is silence.

"Let me take you to dinner," Bond repeats.

Silence. Silence. Silence. Bond's breathing: his chest goes in, out, in, out. Regular. Steady as clockwork.

"You're paying," Q replies.

 

 

Honestly, Q doesn't expect Bond to remember. He couldn't care less whether Bond is being blown to smithereens, or sitting across from him at some fancy wine-bar. The only interest he feels is purely obligatory. Bond practically crash-landed on his doorstep. He ought to feel some sense of responsibility. It's human nature - like with stray cats, and puppies.

And if Q has happened to do a little research on potential dining venues - it's down to professional curiosity. Nothing more.

Naturally, nothing happens. Q goes to the office, and comes back to the flat. Bond is there. Sometimes, he makes them both tea (which Q is absurdly grateful for). Usually, they sit there - side by side, elbows close to brushing. Q works, and Bond snarks, and everything works out fine.

One grey evening, there's a fine mizzle coating the streets. They aren't in a restaurant. They're sitting on the sofa. Bond's removed his shoes, at some point in the afternoon. Q didn't notice. 

Bond's hair is tousled. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, with his back against the wall and a black notebook in his lap. He's chewing a pen, and making notes in the margins. "What are we having for dinner?" he says. 

"I don't know." Q pushes his glasses up his nose. "Pasta, I suppose." 

Bond snorts. "You and your pasta," he says. 

And in that moment, Q realises, with a slow, mounting sense of horror, that not only are they bickering, but also that he is perfectly content to do so. 

Q puts the mug of tea - the mug of tea that _Bond_ made - down. 

Bond looks up. "What?" he says, brows lowering over his eyes. "What is it?" 

"I appear," Q says, slowly, "to have been compromised."

Bond's brows rise. It's a little distracting. "Really? I wouldn't have thought you were the type."

Q scowls. "Don't mock me," he says. "This isn't funny." 

Bond's face is a blank. "I wouldn't dream of it," he replies.

Q turns his back; looks out of the window. In the scrubland, the trees are barely moving, despite the downpour. He can hardly see them. "You'll have to go," he says, voice surprisingly hollow. "You'll be at a disadvantage. Feelings ruin agents."

"Who says I wasn't behind from the beginning?"

Q closes his eyes; swallows. "I do. Pack your things. I'll see you in the morning."

There is a beat of stillness. Raindrops patter down the pane, one after another.

The flat won't be quite the same, without Bond in it.

"No," Bond says.

By his sides, Q's hands curl into fists. "007." 

"Don't call me that."

Q's mouth shuts. Opens. Shuts. "Bond." 

"My name."

At this, Q has no choice but to face him. "What?"

Bond folds his arms over his chest; smirks. It's not his usual smirk. It's harder; colder. Q doesn't want to see it. Doesn't want to see any of it. (Doesn't have any choice in the matter.)

"If I'm going to be leaving," Bond says, slowly, "the least you can do is say my name. Q."

At the last word, Q flinches. "That's - meaningless. There's no point."

"It might make you change your mind."

Outside, thunder rumbles, somewhere in the distance.

Q shakes his head. "No."

"Q."

"No."

Q's hands are shaking, now. He's balled them up - but even so, the tremors must be visible. He never was cut out for field work. Always had been so obvious.

"Q." 

"You don't - you don't get to do this. I don't _want_ this."

"But you do," Bond says. He's moved closer, somehow - and he's still moving, closer and closer and closer. If there was anywhere left to run, Q would go there in a heartbeat. "You know you do. Q."

This time, the title sounds less like a threat, and more like a promise. Q's mouth goes dry.

"I don't," he croaks. "I can't."

"You can. You will."

Suddenly, Bond's in front of him. The rain's slicked his hair to his head. Q can see the streaks of grey, running through it. He's got his collar turned up, even though it's not doing him any good, anymore. Q fights the urge to flick it down, along with his own (pounding) pulse.

"You-"

"One chance. That's all I ask."

Before Q can ask what that means, Bond has placed a hand behind his head. His fingers are long, and calloused. Q can feel the grooves, against his skin. They settle into his hair, rubbing a soothing, circular rhythm. Q grits his teeth. His face is hot. There is breath, blowing against it.

"Bond-"

"Please," Bond breathes. It's such a small sound, Q almost misses it.

Instead, he steps forward, and drags Bond towards him, and kisses him.

 

 

Bond's lips are wet with water. He tastes of mint, faintly - must have brushed his teeth, before they went out. Q can hear his heartbeat, in his ears. It's going must too fast to be Bond's - must be his own, racing away. Grabbing at Bond's forearms, he tries to find purchase; but he keeps on slipping down, and the pads of his fingers are far too sticky.

Q's glasses scrape along his nose. Bond doesn't seem over-perturbed by this, which must be a good sign. Grabbing at the frames, he tosses them to one side. Before Q can protest, Bond's shoving him up against the counter top, and they're kissing and kissing and kissing, like they're never going to stop.

(Q is surprised by how little he'd mind that.)

"Handle," Q says. The object digs into his back, almost forcing its way through his skin. Bond's lips continue their careful perusal of his neck. With the heat there, and the heat down below - it's more than a bit hard to concentrate. A lot more than a bit. "Handle. Cupboard. James."

Bond pauses, for a moment, before stepping away; removes his face from Q's skin, leeching out the world's warmth. "Sorry," he says.

"Quite alright," Q replies. The world is a mush of blurs, and lines. Squinting, he tries to make out the expression on Bond's face. He can't manage it. "How - was that - ah-"

"Agreeable?"

Q nods, swallowing. His back aches. "Yes." There's something cold, in the pit of his chest. The room's much chillier than it was. Q runs at his arms, trying to fight down the goosebumps. He looks at the ground. He looks at the wall. He looks at everything and anything but Bond.

"You bloody idiot," Bond breathes.

Q has to do a double-take. "Pardon?"

"You think I'm going to leave." Bond stares directly at him. Q shifts. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

"It was never - supposed to be permanent." Unbuttoning his cuffs, Q attempts to regulate his breathing. It doesn't work. "You weren't meant to stay. You didn't want to stay. I - didn't want to make you."

Bond crosses his arms over his chest, every line taut. Q knows what comes after this. He knows.

"If you're going to give me the bloody apology," Q snaps, "you can save it. You're James Bond, and you can have everyone and anyone you want. I understand. Fine. Just - don't - don't-"

"Mallory didn't ask me to stay," Bond sighs, deeply. "He asked me to go."

"...Ah."

"Yes, ah. I was - required. For a mission."

"How did you get out of it?" Bond's face speaks louder than words. Q exhales, blowing out air between his teeth. "You faked your death. Again. Bond."

"Sorry," Bond says, not sounding sorry at all.

Q heaves a breath. "Do I want to know why?" Bond's jaw tightens. "Malory knew, I presume." 

Bond takes a step - and another, and another. Q takes one, too - and then they're face to face, eye to eye. Bond has a small line of stubble on his jaw. "I needed a holiday," he murmurs. It sends a small thrill down Q's body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

"Well, MI6 can be tedious," Q says. Bond's nodding, seemingly blank-faced - but there's a smile behind it, and the potential for a wink, and for more and more and more. Q's throat is dry. "Too much paperwork. I can see why you'd leave, for a while."

"Just for a while?"

There are specks of green, in the centre of Bond's eyes; there is chap, on his lips. Q bites down on his own, hard, and gulps.

"Until the job's done," he gets out.

Bond nods, again, contemplatively. His breath is warm, against Q's skin. "That could take some time."

"Potentially," Q agrees. Bond's hands sit by his sides. Their fingertips brush together, every once in a while.

Bond grins, all white teeth and charm. Sickeningly, Q's heart stutters.

"Excellent," Bond says.

And, this time, Q doesn't pull away.

 

 

It's a Monday evening. Or  Tuesday morning. Q's bent double over the console. His eyes are swimming, and there's a man standing behind him.

"I see Agent Bond has rejoined us in the land of the living," Mallory says.

Q hums, and keeps typing. "Incoming, 007."

"Why don't you shout a little louder, Q? That way, the entire continent could hear you."

"No need for that," Q says, just loudly enough for the comms link to pick it up. "You're stressed. Take a breath."

"I'll relax when the job's done."

"The job won't _get_ done if you don't relax. Now hold still."

On the screen, Bond ducks to one side, head bobbing down. Q clicks the switch. The doorway bursts into flame.

Mallory nods, once, and then wanders away - presumably to flay some new inmate. Q can't spare an eye to keep track on him.

There is plaster on Bond's shirt when he stands up. Brushing down his suit, he adjusts his cuff-links, and steps smartly through the blown-out husk. The light frames him in red, and gold.

"If you could stop posing, you'd find the target in the hallway."

"On it," Bond says, and darts into the following room. Q switches camera; turns its head, to follow Bond's progress. Casually crushing splinters, he crosses to the man's side. The man's not dead - on the ground, he twitches, chest rising and falling raggedly.

Bond kneels down beside him, and removes his gun from his inside pocket. It sits easily, in his hands. He presses the gun against the man's skull. The target's eyelids flicker. He has a birthmark, on his right cheek.

"Take the shot," Q says.

Bond nods. The gun is fired. Q doesn't look away.

"Mission complete," Bond says, sliding the pistol back into his pocket. "Returning to base."

"Affirmative," Q responds, "response noted. Good job, 007. I'll see you when you arrive."

"You will indeed," Bond chuckles, loudly. "What are we having for dinner?"

Behind him, there's a titter. Q feels his cheeks flush. "Bond," he hisses, "the interns."

"Hello, Marie," Bond says, ducking out of the way of an oncoming motorbike, and cradling his left hand to his chest. Marie giggles again, and wiggles her fingers.

"Professionalism, 007. I don't suppose you've heard of it."

"We could go out. My treat." Hauling himself over a fence, Bond drops neatly into the other side, and hobbles over to a wall. He's breathing much too rapidly for comfort. "Indian. Chinese. Thai. Whatever you want."

Q fiddles with his pen, pretending to consider the question. "Thai," he says, finally. "I want chicken."

"Done," Bond says. "Anything else?"

"My equipment back." Bond pulls a face. Q frowns; he sighs, "How bad is it this time?"

"It's only in a couple of pieces," Bond mutters. "Nothing unsalvageable."

Q shakes his head. He meets Hodgkins' eyes, briefly, before sending a full-out scowl backwards. The man dips his head, turning a beautiful shade of cream.

"What _am_ I going to do with you?"

Bond grins. "Well - " 

"Shut up," Q says. "Come back." 

Bond salutes. He has dust in his hair. "If you insist," he says, and then he stands, and rounds the corner, and disappears frown the camera's line. 

Q leans back. His chest's warm. He's tingling, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, all the way down. 

"As you were," Q says; as the interns scurry away, he smiles. 


End file.
